Referendum
by embracethis
Summary: James Wilson has a secret unknown to anyone and with a ten year old child's life in the balance, it may be the end of his career. House is left with a case he can't solve and a woman he can't get. The first chapter of MANY. Please R and R.
1. Chapter 1

James Wilson had been more than difficult to get a hold of. It was frustrating, especially when he had one of House's patients. House was sitting in a solitary room, hacking his tennis ball at the wall. Otherwise, he was completely comatose. Cameron stuck her head in the room and murmured a soft, "House…"

He had responded with a grunt and a, "Find Wilson." His eyes were still fixated on the wall.

"We can't."

"Too bad for you. Can't a man throw a ball in peace?"

He had been like this for days.

There were also empty coffee cups and sandwich wrappers everywhere, implying what they all already knew: He hadn't left the hospital.

This was a case that even House couldn't solve.

Chase's eyes scoured the whiteboard as he tapped the tip of his pen on the edge of the table.

"If House can't do this, there's no way that Wilson's going to."

Cameron sighed, having just reentered the room. "Wilson is a good doctor," she chided.

Foreman, standing next to the whiteboard, was retracing the chicken-scratch with his own hand. He turned, and glared.

"You're kidding, right? His handwriting is like a preschooler's and we don't even know how to get in touch with him."

Chase dropped his pen, lifting his eyes rather irritably. "Yeah," he said. "And House is such a great help, chucking a tennis ball at the wall and knocking back coffee and Vicodin."

There was a moment of silence until Cameron's soft voice floated through the air. "It has to be hard for him, not knowing what to do."

Foreman gave up his efforts with the whiteboard and clicked the cap of the pen back on. "It's not his case anymore."

Another sigh from Cameron. "That's not how he sees it."

"None of this is relevant until we get back the results of the biopsy."

Defeated, Cameron slipped into her chair and buried her face into her hands.

If there was one thing Gregory House hated more than being wrong, it was not being right. Deceptively, they may seem like exactly the same thing. But Greg had been in the medical field long enough to know the difference. Being wrong was definite. End of story. Quid pro quo. All of that. The patient either died, or you tried again. But not being right…now there was a totally different can of pears.

Not being right lead to guesses. It lead to conjectures. It lead to ticking away on a patient's time-clock while sitting, hacking a tennis ball at the wall with nothing to tell the family except either "We don't know" or simply, "D'oh."

Greg House, in this case, was not right. For once in a very rare occasion, he considered sending the ducklings home ahead of him. They were all idiots and couldn't tell him anything he didn't already know. Chase would suggest endometriosis (to which House would kindly remind him that the patient was a male), Foreman would suggest a tumor, Cameron would suggest an auto-immune disease, after which Chase would lick his wounds and defend his woman Early Victorian Era style by suggesting lupus. It was never lupus.

What Greg had on his hands was a case he definitely could not solve. Five days had passed and he was running into the fifth night. A ten year old kid was sleeping, and rapidly dying, eight doors down from his office, and all Greg possessed was a tennis ball and a list of symptoms. They weren't even symptoms anymore, as far as he was concerned. They were just words.

Greg abandoned the tennis ball about three hours later. Much like a med student, he had picked back up the books, in the sincere hope of reexamining some chapter he had, clearly, forgotten…or cut out to hide a pill bottle. Two hours ago, the glasses had gone on. And one hour ago, Greg's adrenaline was so high and his blood pressure so accelerated that caffeine didn't touch him. His state was nearly comatose, the insanity stemming from a desire not even he understood. He hadn't had a Vicodin in hours.

The hospital was nearly dead.

James Wilson finally sat up from his couch in his office. The lights were dim, and his eyes were crusted with sleep. He rubbed them, childishly, with the heels of his palms before finally flicking on the light. It was 3:09 in the morning.

Even more shocking was the light on down the hall. Wilson had his blazer on, and was fastening one of the buttons when he noticed it. It was a rarity for House to be in his office at all, much less at such an ungodly hour. Admittedly, reluctantly, Wilson was concerned. He took to the hallway and on to House's office. He didn't bother knocking but once, with the knuckle of his middle finger, before pushing through the glass and peeking in his head.

"I've heard of doctors making house calls…but hookers? What are you doing here so late?"

Greg had no idea what time it was, but he wasn't really surprised to hear Wilson's voice breaking and slicing unforgiving into his meditation and state of near unconsciousness. The glasses came off. He lay them on the desk in front of him, though he scarcely looked up. A hand went behind his neck to scratch it nonchalantly. "I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the night janitor. The nurses on the sixth floor say he's dreamy. Hey."

Finally Greg glanced up, taking one of the x-rays in his hand. Absently, he passed it over. "Take a look at that." Greg was suddenly reminded that his leg hurt. Oh. That. He reached into the pocket of the coat draped over the back of his chair.

He began to wrestle with the lid to his pill bottle. His hands were shaky from lack of sleep and intake of caffeine. His nails dug under the lid as he attempted to pry it off. "Tumor? Say no or I'll…dose your…well. You don't want to know." He grunted. The lid wouldn't budge. "It's a tumor. Give it back." Greg snatched back the x-ray, and tossed over the bottle. "And open that."

Wilson caught the bottle, a little surprised. Typically, House at least gave him a moment in order to respond. "Why yes, House, thanks for asking my medical expertise. You know, tumors are kind of my thing. Like your thing is…" He pushed his palm hard onto the lid of the bottle, and twisted. It popped off. "…drug abuse and fantasies of hookers who let you do it without latex."

"Oh snap," Greg mused, grabbing the bottle. He left the lid behind. It'd be easier that way, the next time Wilson wasn't around. Wilson held the lid out but, realizing that House wasn't going to take it, sighed and placed it on the table between the two legs of House's glasses. Greg lay a pill on his palm and sifted it up to his mouth.

Wilson sighed. He was getting nowhere.

"Look," he started, "it's been a long few days. And this is my patient anyway. You're not going to suddenly find some miraculous disease that looks like a tumor, biopsies like a tumor, but isn't a tumor. I'm sorry."

"It's a tumor," Greg agreed, glancing once more over the x-ray, "but it's not your patient."

"And how does that wo--."

"Because you're distracted." House answered the question before Wilson had an opportunity to finish asking it. Wilson scoffed.

"I am not distracted."

"Sure," House snorted and slipped his glasses back onto his face. "That's exactly why you've been ignoring my team, your pager, phone, and Cuddy all day." He paused. "Oh snap, you're turning into me, aren't you? Look, I know I'm adorable, but the second you start driving a Harley, our friendship is effectively over."

Wilson sighed, tossed his hands up slightly, and turned to leave. "Night, House."

"Night, Wilson."

Wilson walked the hallway to his office, checked to make sure that the door was locked, and then leaned against it. There was so much that House didn't know. House's team wasn't usurping their duties like he was. He had to get a grip. There was a little boy who was dying, and cancer couldn't be the only reason. Maybe he did need House. Maybe he should actually do his job. House hadn't left, and Wilson was snoozing on his couch like a child. He straightened his blazer and headed for the parking lot.

He was in for a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson stayed up the remainder of the night. And when the sun began to rise around 6:00 AM, he took a shower, clipped his toenails, dressed, and dried his hair. Bags had already begun forming under his eyes, but he wasn't about to emasculate himself by covering them with makeup, or by any other means. He slipped his cell phone into his pocket and headed out to the car.

Meanwhile, House had still not left his office. He had, however, fallen asleep. Face pressed up against the book that he had been reading, his lips had parted a small bit of drool was now smearing together the words "BIOPSY" and "AUTOPSY." Not a good combination in this case. Greg wanted to avoid it at all costs.

The ducklings had trickled back in, and after taking one look at him, Cameron immediately headed down the hall to talk to Cuddy. Chase had tried to stop her. "Look, he's doing work for once. Let him stay."

"He's no good to us."

"So he can operate on Vicodin but the second he stays for a few days you go running to tattle to Mommy?"

Cameron sneered. "At least I'm not the one who sold him out." Foreman had made an O shape with his mouth and covered it with his fist, but Chase had been rendered speechless. Cameron took the moment of silence to trickle down the hallway, her far-too-difficult-to-walk-in-for-the-office heels clicking as she went.

It took Cuddy a grand total of three minutes come down the hallway. Irritably, she burst into House's office, the glass door slamming open and nearly cracking. "House! Get up," she demanded, and crossed her arms. House didn't budge. "House." Cuddy smirked and lifted his cane from its place leaning against the wall and tapped it against his back, a little harder than was necessary. House jolted awake, and glared. "Go home," she said, humorlessly. "You've been here for five days. Go home, if only to take a shower and do us all a favor."

Greg glanced down at the now-mutilated textbook. It wasn't as though he'd meant to fall asleep. But there were only so many reasons a mass could biopsy as a tumor, and once you read them a total of five times, it stopped being exciting. Where was the drama? Where was the sex? Greg hurriedly put his glasses back on, and flipped past the malinger page. "There are showers here," he replied.

"Then take one."

It was probably the next day, Greg reasoned by the sunlight beginning to stream in through the windows, but he could still plainly hear those Payless heels tapping incessantly against the tile floor. The sudden intrusion into his office was no surprise, but Greg nevertheless groaned. The last thing he needed was an interruption, much less the "Lisa Cuddy Lists All Of Greg House's Faults And Then Storms From the Room With Her Hips Swaying Show." Well, maybe he could have dealt with the last part.

Greg suddenly registered how shrill her voice seemed when he was still have asleep, and he put his hands over his eyes. "Oh, powerful Yahweh, I wish your demon spawn away!" A few moments passed, and Greg uncovered his eyes. He snapped his fingers once in mock defeat. "Damn, and I even prayed to YOUR God. Shouldn't you be surfing or something?" Greg, frustrated, reached over to the pills he'd left open. He glanced inside, and sighed, downing the last one. "Do me a favor and get pissy while you write me a new prescription. Or at least pass me a sedative."

Barely glancing up, Greg fumbled through some of the papers he had strewn across his desk. It was time for him to make some heads or tails of it all, if it was possible. He busied himself, putting on the Good Doctor Show, and jotting down a few quick notes. He flashed her a little innocent smile. "Oh, and if you open your mail, don't be surprised. It wasn't me, it was my evil twin…uh…Fregory."

"House…what did you do?"

"Me?" He blinked innocently again, eyes casting downwards once more. He only peered up at her over the rim of his glasses. "But by the looks of it, it seems like YOU signed off on marijuana for medicinal purposes, but I could be wrong."

Cuddy shot House a glare, and turned. There was nothing that she could do with him, so the last thing she wanted to do was try. At least it was legal. Sort of.

Wilson arrived at the hospital a few minutes later. He spent a while in the lobby, glancing around and tapping his foot impatiently. One of the nurses at the information desk took a small step forward. "Dr. Wilson?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin, but controlled himself and took a breath. "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he commented, and unbuttoned his blazer. And yet, he seemed completely unnerved.

Cuddy, leaving House's office, caught a glimpse of Wilson as he entered. She sighed and looked down from the second level, hands gripping the railing until her knuckles turned white. "Wilson," she hissed, and he glanced up. "My office. Now."

His heart sank to his knees.

Inside of Cuddy's office, Wilson finally realized why he should have hidden in his room for the remainder of the day. Silently, he wondered how House ever put up with it. Cuddy was irate, eyes boiling and Wilson half expected smoke to pour out of her ears. "Dr. Wilson," she started – no good could come from her use of the phrase Dr. Wilson, "have a seat." No good could come from that, either. Wilson complied.

His heart was pounding, but he seemed to control his breath with forced meditation. Cuddy continued. "We've had a few complaints lately, from patients. It's only been over the past few days, but I want you to know that if there is something going on, you need to either call in sick, or deal with it."

"I know," he murmured, guiltily.

"No," Cuddy continued harshly, "you don't. Because otherwise, you wouldn't be here right now. I understand personal crisis, and I have no idea what it is that you're going through now. But I also know that you need to let it stop affecting your work life. You have a patient now, and while you're here, your patient needs first priority. Either that, or I'm taking him away from you."

"…won't be necessary."

Cuddy's face substantially softened, and Wilson took a breath of relief. "Wilson, you're my friend. I know that you're my employee, but before all of that…and if you need to talk to someone about this, you know that I'll listen."

"It's nothing." He was non-committal.

"Then do your job," she requested gently. Wilson only nodded.

He left her office visibly shaken, and went instead to the locker rooms. House was stepping out of the shower, but it was clear by the size of the bags under his eyes that he had at least gotten a bit of sleep. Wilson nodded in acknowledgement and House gave a strange kind of smirk. "Don't look, Jimmy, I'm still very self-conscious about my figure. And my thing."

Wilson shook his head and dumped a few of his things into his locker. "The patient is mine, House."

"Aww," House coaxed, "was the big bad Cuddle-monster mean to you, Jimmy?"

"Leave it, House," he warned. And even Greg knew when to draw the line. He grabbed a few of his things, dressed, and left the locker room. Wilson sat down on one of the benches, placing his elbows on his knees and his head into his hands. He took several cleansing breaths, and attempted to piece his sanity back together. Cuddy was right. He just needed to get over it.


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson hadn't been himself all day. Or the day before that. Or the day before that. In fact, over the past six days, Wilson had been devastatingly melancholy, even for Wilson. He had a difficult time admitting defeat, Greg knew that, but this was something much bigger than that. He had a patient. That was like a field day for oncologists. They loved getting to diagnose cancer, and put patients on chemo, and watch their hair fall out. It was like free, very odd, porn.

But Wilson was too upset and weirdly awkward for it to be something as simple as a bad hair day. Which, Greg noted, he was definitely having.

What was it about THIS case that had his panties in a twist? There had to be a connection. House was always looking for the connections. And it was no coincidence that Wilson's sudden bought of extraneous nervous energy was suddenly invoked the moment that kid stepped into the clinic. There was something personal about the case. Something very personal. House glanced at the kid's file.

Matthew Tomlin. Age 10. Admitted to the hospital March 15, 2007. Blurred vision, twitching eyes, and slightly malformed ears. House glanced over the x-ray once more. A tumor in the brain. But slowly, Greg's eyes narrowed. He was an idiot.

The trek down the hallway seemed much longer than it actually was. He pushed through into Wilson's office and tossed the x-ray against the table. Wilson had a copy of the x-ray himself, and was glancing it over. He had a note written on a post-it that sat at the corner of the patient's file, "No improvement by 4:15, begin chemo." Clearly, it was all that Wilson could think of. When House burst into the room, Wilson's eyes only moved slightly upwards. "Can I help you?"

"You're an idiot."

Wilson scoffed once and returned his eyes to the file. "I am not."

"Your patient…have you checked his retinas?"

The oncologist once more looked upward. "He was given a routine physical when he came in. Everything looked fine. Why? The tumor is in his brain."

"Wrong," House accused, and pointed to the x-ray. He hesitated. "Okay, right, but wrong concept. The kid doesn't have brain cancer."

Wilson's eyebrows fluffed up in confusion and after a moment of staring somewhat blankly in House's general direction, he looked back swiftly at the x-ray. Lifting it upwards towards the light, he squinted his eyes and looked closer. He still saw nothing, and House sighed dramatically. "Do I have to spell out everything?" He hardly gave Wilson a chance to speak before barging right through. "The cancer didn't begin in his brain. It metastasized to his brain."

Wilson's expression clearly exerted the fact that he had no idea what was going on. He lowered his head and held the x-ray up further, as though he wanted to get a clearer view.

"Look at the lobe," Greg demanded, and flicked the x-ray once.

"Occipital," Wilson observed voice smoothing over and growing slightly more panicked.

"The kid's got retinoblastoma."

"Oh god…"

"It explains the blurred vision, the lack of focus, and the fact that it's spread accounts for the epilepsy…"

"I need to start cryotherapy…"

"It won't do anything at this point."

Wilson looked up, his eyes glazing over. "Why not? I can shrink the tumor in the retina, and use chemo to wipe out the rest of it."

House sighed as though Wilson was a complete moron. In that moment, House believed that perhaps, he was. "If you use cryotherapy, you'll promote vasoconstriction."

"Right," Wilson agreed.

"If you promote vasoconstriction…" House waved his hand a little. "…feel free to jump in any time…" Wilson only glanced at House as though he'd lost his mind. Greg sighed. "Do I have to do everything myself? Really. Vasoconstriction increases blood pressure." Wilson nodded, to say that he followed. "The vasoconstrictors most frequently used are…"

Wilson sighed and put his hands against his face. "Amphetamines. With the tumor in his brain, he'll stroke."

"And die."

"And die," Wilson repeated in a quiet whisper.

"And…the entire oncology department will create a sing-along to repeat everything I say. Let's jump over the death part and go right into the singing."

Wilson was quiet for some time, and House could tell that his mind was flying at a mile a minute. Perhaps more. Most people, when they were in thought, clasped their hands together, fiddled with something, fidgeted, shifted, or their eyes fluttered. Wilson, on the other hand, stopped moving altogether. Wilson was one strange puppy. Always had been. His eyes found a single place on the wall across from him, and for a while, he didn't even blink. Greg allowed him this silence, knowing that it was more than likely a necessary thought-process, and finally, Wilson's eyes flicked up to look at House.

Greg, however, lifted a hand as though he was attempting to stop any possible thoughts of coming through to him. "Look, if you're interested in one of those deep and meaningful conversations where we eat ice cream and spill our guts out over Leonardo diCaprio and Tigerbeat, you're barking up the wrong tree."

Wilson shook his head and rose, visibly gathering himself together. "I'm going to go talk to his mother about treatment options."

House's brows lifted in a sarcastic manner. "Are you sure you don't wanna review them first? You know, so you don't give her ten year old an infarction?"

A glare from the oncologist proved to silence Greg completely, and he limped from the office as quickly as his bum leg would carry him.

Nevertheless, he decided that a bit of friendly espionage never hurt anyone. Greg concealed himself around the corner from Wilson's office. His walls weren't glass. House had the advantage. Every so often, he peeked around the corner until, finally, he watched as Wilson moved down the hallway. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, which was something he only did when unabashedly concerned or upset. House observed as he went into the room, talked to the patient's mother, and then watched as she sank into a chair. Her arms numbly thrust forward as though she meant to hold onto Wilson, and suddenly, Greg noticed something else.

She was hot.

Not just pretty, cute, or mildly attractive. No, this thirty-something mother was the most gorgeous thing that had walked onto the floor since Cameron forgot to wear a bra over three months ago. House blinked, and thanked the Gods of the polyester company for making stretch tank tops with the built-in bras.

She left the room with much coaxing from Wilson, and House overheard him telling her to go get a cup of coffee, mull it over. House thought that was an excellent suggestion. Come to think of it, he had some things to mull over as well. With a sly expression, he began to follow the luscious brunette towards the elevator. Wilson stepped in front of him before he knew what was happening, and placed a hand on his chest. "Don't even think about it, House."

House glanced over at Wilson, then back to the elevator where the brunette was still waiting. Ms. Tomlin, he could only imagine. Miss Tomlin, to be more politically incorrect. Single-motherhood had never looked so good. "What? I need coffee."

Wilson made an indiscernible sound and tilted his head down the hall. "There's a machine down there."

"Not one as good as the one downstairs, where the hottest woman in the world is mourning and suffering and needing a cane to lean on."

Wilson feverishly shook his head. "I'm seriously, House. This woman just found out that her son has a cancer that only presents itself in three percent of children with cancer. Three. Do you know how small that number is? He's going to have to most likely have his left eye removed. And with the cancer metastasized, he doesn't have much of a chance at all. I have an OR booked for 3:00 PM, and I would really appreciate it if you wouldn't be around until after her son has his eye taken out."

House shook his head as the elevator doors opened. "No can do, Jimmy."

Wilson's expression was one of shock. "You're just…you're unbelievable, you know that?"

"Have you been talking to the nurses in the maternity ward again?"

"You have the world at your feet. You're smarter than anyone in this hospital put together, and yet…you still find it necessary to hit on the mother of a child who has brain cancer. We're removing his eye, but if we also have to remove the occipital lobe…he'll never be able to see again."

Greg smiled notoriously triumphantly as he motioned for the woman to hold open the elevator. He turned back to Wilson for a brief moment. He was nearing the elevator now, and though Wilson didn't follow, Greg still spoke loud enough to be heard. "Then he'll never be able to see her cry."

Wilson was left speechless and stunned as the elevator doors closed on House's grinning face.


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson returned to his office an indiscriminate wreck. The OR was booked for three hours later and Wilson couldn't get it out of his head. He was going to blind a ten year old, and possibly render him with permanent brain damage. The dendrites connecting the occipital lobe to the rest of the brain would have to be cut. It could leave him with some serious psychological and physiological issues for the rest of his life. Matthew. Matthew would never play baseball or join the school play. He'd be lucky if he grew up with the ability to sign his own name.

And with the rapid progression of the tumor, and the rate it had metastasized, Wilson knew that chemo was out of the question.

Three hours until he ended the life of Matthew Tomlin, age ten. He began planning out the process for the surgery.

Greg's eyes scanned the elevator. He was having a much better afternoon than his oncologist cohort. One man's patient's grieving mother was another man's lunch date. Play the caring rogue, the innocent bystander, then watch as cardiologist and neurologist alike lowered their eyes and seethed with jealousy.

She was crying. Greg couldn't really blame her. They all cried. And the fact that he and the hot lady were alone in the elevator gave House the clear advantage. He reached into his pocket and drew out a small package of tissues wrapped in plastic. "Here," he said softly and passed them to her.

She took them and lifted one to dab her eyes. "Thanks," she murmured gratefully.

Even her voice was hot.

House glanced at her, taking in her features. She was one of those women who was so beautiful when she cried that it was next to impossible to think that she would be any more gorgeous with dry eyes.

She drew out a few more tissues and then held the remainder back to Greg, who shook his head. "Keep them." She nodded and stuffed the rest into the pocket of her jeans. Greg was quiet momentarily, then boyishly cleared his throat. She hardly lifted her eyes. "Your son…he's in good hands." That earned her attention. She looked up, eyes misting over once more.

"You know my son?" Her voice was softly affected and cracked once.

Greg saw in this a golden opportunity. "I'm Dr. Gregory House. I'm the one who diagnosed Matthew."

The woman lowered her eyes and blinked a few times, tears falling from her eyelashes to the floor. "He goes by Matt," she told him, in a near whimper. Finally, her eyes found his. "Thank you," she said, and Greg was momentarily shocked by the quiet sincerity in her voice.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened, and Greg held his cane against one side. "Let me buy you coffee," he offered, and after a moment of consideration, she nodded.

By the time House returned to the second floor, he had a small list of information. Her name was Larkin, she was thirty-five years old, and worked for her local newspaper. Also according to her, Matthew, or Matt, was the best mistake she ever made. His father had had no idea about him, but she was okay with that. He'd broken her heart, and by those standards, had no right to be in her life at all. Women.

She was also terrified about the surgery, and completely knew what it meant for Matt's future. With tears spilling down her cheeks, she'd observed, "He loves horseback riding."

Greg had cleared his throat and responded with a rather dumb expression of, "Dr. Wilson is one of the best in his field. And even if Matt ends up blind, he can still ride. He'll just have to be led around." He'd completely and conveniently left out the part where, the past week, she could have detonated a bomb next to Dr. Wilson's office and he wouldn't have noticed through his piteous self-indulgence.

Larkin had nodded and replied, "Dr. Chase briefed me on Dr. Wilson's credentials. I know he's a good doctor. I just…wish he could give my son his life back."

Sitting in his office, Greg was unnerved. It was a rarity, but did occasionally occur. His fist closed around his tennis ball, though he didn't throw it. Larkin. She was gorgeous, sure. But there was something else about her. Her son was going to end up as a blind retard, and it was clear that she wasn't bitter at all. If they'd been able to catch the tumor earlier, they might have been able to zap it with some radiation, but now? They'd taken so long that it was next to incurable. And she had no intention of suing for malpractice, or even giving the doctors a slap on the wrist. It was just a quiet kind of…acceptance.

Down the hall, Wilson took a deep breath and looked at the clock. It was three.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself together and headed down the Matthew's room. His mother was in an inconsolable heap in a chair, while Matthew slept on due to the aid of some very heavy sedatives. Larkin rose and moved towards Wilson, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Is he awake?" she whimpered.

Wilson shook his head. "He's completely asleep. He won't even know when we've taken him in for surgery." His hands rested rather comfortably at her waist and, taking a deep breath, he smelled the familiar scent of her perfume.

The woman wept a little more openly now, feeling much more comfortable now that she knew her son couldn't hear her. She held tighter to Wilson, every part of her body trembling. "Will you be performing the surgery?"

"No," he said, softly. "But I will be there overseeing it. It's a slight…conflict of interest. It's too personal. Something could go wrong as a result."

Larkin was silent for a long time before she finally pulled away. Gently, slowly, she moved forward and pressed her lips against Wilson's. The oncologist remained slightly surprised for a moment, but slowly he returned the kiss, his mouth pressing back in an encouraging manner. "It will be okay," he murmured, in order to break from her kiss.

"I'm afraid, James."

"So am I."

Wilson quietly moved away from her and over to the bed. Numbly, he pushed his palm over Matthew's forehead, and through his hair. He studied each of his features, the similarities to his own, and then looked back at Larkin. "It's kind of a sick irony, isn't it?" Larkin didn't respond, and so Wilson continued. "The same week that I discover I have a son, I'm treating him for cancer. Cutting out his eye. His brain. It's sick."

But his voice was hardly near angry. It was sad. It was accepting. But it was also betrayed.

"James, I wanted to tell you."

Wilson shook his head. "If you had wanted to tell me, Larkin, you would have told me." A deep breath in, and his nerves were slightly cleared. "I'll get him into the OR. He'll be okay." But Wilson had no idea if he would be. Wilson didn't even know if he would survive the surgery.

He called in a small staff of nurses, and he walked beside the gurney as it headed towards the operating room. He gave a single glance back towards Larkin, and then a final at House's office. And slowly, he felt a strange form of jealousy beginning to bubble in the pit of his stomach.


	5. Chapter 5

It seemed that everyone in the hospital lately was suffering from a lack of sleep. The ducklings filed in one after the other the next morning, and Chase had bags under his eyes the size of a cantaloupe. The sleep deprivation was slowly moving through the employees at Princeton-Plainsboro, and there was no way to tell who would suffer the pangs next. House, on the other hand, was in a rather good mood for him, which was nothing but exceptionally rare.

Foreman was snickering at the young Aussie as he sat with his face in his hands at the table. There was a cup of hot coffee in front of him, but he wasn't drinking. It was as though it was impossible for him. It was like he couldn't even move. It was true. He didn't want to.

House took his cane and smacked it on the table next to Chase, who immediately leapt to attention, sitting up as straight as he dared.

"Long night?" House asked, however apathetically.

"You could say that," came the tired reply, and he relaxed a bit once more.

"Hooker? Or Cameron?"

Cameron shot House a glare, who pursed his lips and shrugged in an extremely innocent manner.

"Neither," Chase replied, a little defensively. He rubbed his eyes gently with his fingertips. "My house is haunted."

There was a moment where the three remaining individuals fell completely silent. Foreman exchanged a quick glance with Cameron who, in turn, glanced at House. The disbelief in the room was nearly penetrable and finally Chase looked up to glare at all of them. "What!"

"Oh, nothing," Foreman replied with a scoff. "Just…well, are we talking Casper here, or Beetlejuice?"

Chase opened his mouth to speak, but House stepped in, slapping Foreman upside the head. "Come on, black one. Leave him alone. The Aussie believes in aliens, are you really going to give him shit for believing in ghosts, too?"

Chase immediately jumped to his own defense. "I don't believe in aliens. I believe in the possibility that there is other life out there. It's ignorant to think that earth is the only--."

"Yeah, we get it," Foreman seethed in a rather melancholy way.

Chase shot him a look in reply.

House's mouth formed into a small O shape. "Oh snap! Back off, Chase. You're at a cultural disadvantage here. He'll bust a cap in your ass. Run, little wombat! Run!"

But before Chase could say anything at all, Wilson popped his head into the conference room. His voice and expression were completely emotionless. "House, I need to talk to you." Greg was clearly hesitating, so Wilson barked a quick, "Now."

It was this addition that caught House's attention. Wilson wasn't exactly the type to lose his cool, and with that kind of simply controlled tint to his voice, House knew that it was something serious. It was real. And it was bothering him. The humor fell from his own face and he motioned out of the door. "Go," he directed to each of the ducklings. "Put in your clinic hours now, and then go home. We won't get a case today. And if we do, I'll page you."

They left, one by one, Chase last. He took a final cup of coffee with him, and gave a soft kind of smirk to Wilson, as if to say, "Trust me, I know."

As House's lackeys left, Wilson entered. He gave a false kind of smile to each of them in turn, but once inside, he shot House a look that was less than desirable. Greg shied back a few steps and instead busied himself by the coffee maker. He flicked the switch off, then on, as though he couldn't quite figure it out. "Want a cup?" he offered.

Wilson, however, ignored him altogether. It was clear that he had a mission. It was clear that he knew exactly what he wanted to say, and that he was going to say it no matter what came out of House's mouth. "I want you to stay away from Larkin," he warned.

House paused at that, then turned around. "Are you on a first name basis with all of your patients?" He crossed his arms and leaned back against the sink, taking the pressure off of his right leg. "I thought that was just the ones you were having sex with." He hesitated for another moment. "Are you having sex with her?"

Wilson vehemently shook his head no.

House hesitated. Wilson couldn't look him straight in the eyes, and there were only a handful of reasons why that would be the case. His mind started to fly. "You already knew her," he finally said, a strange sort of silence falling over him.

The oncologist nodded. "Yeah." He still couldn't maintain eye contact.

House seemed rather thrilled at his deduction, but it only lasted for a moment. And finally, his smile disappeared. "You love her."

Another nod.

There was a far-too-long and awkward silence as House cleared his throat. Wilson was studying a tiny crack in the paint on the wall. Behind him, Wilson knew that the wall was completely glass, and anyone could see through it. He hid his emotions well. He always pressed his emotions further in than was necessary, in order to hide and protect who he was. He was shy, and devastated. He was tainted. There were things about him that only he knew. And there were reasons that he could never hold onto his marriages.

To say that the tension permeating the air was awkward would be an understatement, if Wilson ever heard one. House's eyebrows were lifted and his cheeks puffed in and out rapidly. And for one of the few times in his life, Greg felt slightly guilty. It wasn't often he got the chance at a woman, and frankly, best friend's exes were…out of the question at best.

Wilson sighed and finally broke the silence. His voice was gentle and broken. "Just…if you do end up with her, don't hurt her. I hurt her bad enough."

And suddenly, the realization hit House. His eyes shot open and his voice hissed intensely. "YOU'RE Matt's father?!"

The younger shook his head. "I am but…I didn't know about it until last night. I had no idea. I…how could I have known? It isn't like it was obvious. I haven't talked to her in…"

"…over ten years," House completed, impatiently. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I heard the story when I bought her coffee."

Wilson glanced House over, and before he actually lost his composure, he gave his friend a single nod. "Just…take care of her."

And as James Wilson left the conference room, House's guilt increased. His friend's retreating figure only symbolized half of what he wanted for himself.


End file.
